Unlikely Housemates
by Syntyche
Summary: The team adjusts to life in Avengers Tower, and it isn't going as smoothly as Tony had anticipated. Oops. * Teamfic, Loki, Coulson; Clint and Tony-centric because they're awesome that way. * Day Fourteen: The mixed-up Avengers respond predictably to Loki's appearance and proposition. Unfortunately, it looks like their PR manager Pepper is on Loki's side ...
1. Day One: Arrival

**Author's Note: **Awhile back I wrote a Star Wars story titled "Unwelcome Houseguest" about Obi-Wan's humorously angsty and somewhat miserable time adjusting to life with Anakin. It was so much fun to write, and reader participation was so awesome, that I've decided to do a similar Avengers story because I have all of these ridiculous plot bunnies that don't fit anywhere else. **Reader ideas are strongly encouraged!** If there's something you want to see, be it funny, angsty, or whatever, pm or review me and I'll try to work it in. I love a challenge. ;)

Currently this fic contains notdead!Coulson, ProtectiveOfHawkeye!Hulk, Naked!andPopTartLovin!Thor, Clintasha, and any other !ExclamationPointThings that work their way in.

**Unlikely Housemates**

By: Syntyche

Clint Barton, while being the neatly-muscled Picture of Compact Deliciousness, was also currently filling the role of the Picture of Compact Stubbornness. His corded arms were crossed over his chest and he was stopped dead at the doors of Stark Tower - now grandly renamed the Avengers Tower. Clint would wager that Tony had hand-markered the "WELCOME AVENGERS" sign hanging neatly over the entryway, since it was done in the loopy, awful scrawl of a five-year-old. Tony didn't _**need**_ to print well, so Tony didn't. Clint was also surprised to see that the sign was spelled properly.

"I'm not moving in here," Clint said shortly. At his side, Natasha Romanoff grinned despite herself, tossing her gleaming red hair in the sunlight as she turned her face upward to soak in the sun's warmth.

"You'll love it," she assured him, not bothering to open her eyes; Clint knew that Tasha was just itching to get in a workout in Stark's spacious and fully decked out private gym. The Russian didn't care whether her partner would love it here or not.

"No, I won't," Clint said darkly. "I know I won't. This is so clichéd," he complained, adjusting his sunglasses. "Every bad guy anyplace _**ever**_ is going to know where to find us - there's a huge freakin' "A" on the front!"

Natasha grabbed his arm, pulled him forward. "Well, they already rented out your room on base, so you're homeless unless you stay here."

"I'm short," Clint declared, "I'll fit in a refrigerator box just fine. It'll be just like I'm back at the circus."

Natasha looked at Clint. Clint looked at Natasha.

"That was kind of in poor taste," the Black Widow pointed out.

"I know," the archer sighed.

OoOoOoOoOo

Bruce Banner wasn't sure at all about the idea of moving into Avengers Tower. It seemed just a little too small, a lot too confining for the man who at any second could suddenly grow to enormous times his normal size and start mindlessly tearing things apart. Bruce really hoped his room was in the basement somewhere, or maybe the very top floor would be best, away from the support structure. It didn't really matter, though, because the Other Guy would wreck anywhere he could if given the opportunity.

Bruce really wished he were back in some small, out of the way town where he knew that _**he**_, Bruce Banner the scientist, was doing some good. Not the Other Guy, who wasn't so Incredible to Bruce.

And yeah, it was great that the Other Guy was slowly learning to channel his urge to smash and was the entire reason Bruce had been asked to join the Avengers Initiative, but it was really nice, after breaking Harlem and being sent the bill for it, to be able to do some good as Bruce.

Being the Hulk paid more, though, and Harlem wasn't cheap.

And these guys were freaks like him, in their own ways. Maybe not the assassins so much, but at least the other three.

So there was that to look forward to, he supposed.

OoOoOoOoOo

Thor tucked his heavy wooden chest farther up under his brawny arm, grinning insanely in anticipation as he rode the elevator - a truly fascinating device - upstairs per the Man of Iron's directions. While paling in comparison to glorious Asgard, the Tower of the Avengers would be a worthy place to stay while in Midguard, and Thor was extremely excited about his "vacation home in Manhattan," as Stark had put it.

That, and Stark had assured him that there was an entire cupboard packed full of Pop Tarts.

OoOoOoOoOo

Steve Rogers stared in distaste at the monstrous eyesore that was Stark's shining monument to himself. The solder's nose wrinkled as he imagined the snide comments from Stark or Barton if he ever mentioned that particular phrasing out loud and he hastily pushed the thought from his mind before a blush could color his fair skin crimson.

_**That**_ was all he needed. To give those two a reason to tease him about something else.

He didn't want to stay here. He didn't want to be back in the world, despite Director Fury's insistence he ought to. He wanted what he'd _**had**_, not what he had now.

Steve immediately regretted the selfish thought. He'd been given a lot. He didn't mean to complain. He just … didn't _**belong**_. The world didn't want old-fashioned.

The soldier wasn't sure what was wrong with his apartment, but his landlord had suddenly notified him that there was some sort of gas leak and he needed to find somewhere else to live. It didn't actually occur to Steve that none of the other residents of his building had been asked to leave, so he would never find out that Tony Stark had actually paid off Steve's landlord to evict him so Steve would have to move to Avengers Tower to "complete the party."

So here he was, trudging his way up the stairs. He could have used the elevator, sure, but why?

He pushed his way into the lounge with a sigh.

OoOoOoOoOo

Tony Stark was like a kid at Christmas.

No - better. He was freaking _**Santa**_, and the assembled Avengers were his motley assortment of elves: knife/hammer/bow-wielding elves. Sure, they were milling around uncomfortably now - they hadn't had a mission together since they'd saved Manhattan - but Tony knew everything was going to click smoothly and everything was going to be _**awesome**_.

Tony grinned widely as he passed out room assignments and lock codes.

This was his best idea _**ever**_.

OoOoOoOoOo

:D Next up: their first official dinner, in which Tony learns that with the Avengers, if you're going to play How to Host a Murder, he should really tell the rest of the team beforehand that it's just a game. Ideas? Suggestions? Reviews? Let me know if you'd like to see more!


	2. Day One: How to Host a Mystery Dinner

**Thank you** everyone who took a minute to review! Thanks to your encouragement, I am posting chapter two ALREADY. See the power of reviews? Doesn't that inspire readers to review more? ;D

**Unlikely Housemates**

By: Syntyche

Day One: How to Host a Mystery Dinner

"I really must question your sanity for persisting in embarking upon this ill-advised endeavor, sir," JARVIS said politely, and Tony snorted disdainfully.

"You're always questioning my sanity, JARVIS; makes me think you don't trust me. I'm wounded." Tony put a hand over his arc reactor - not his heart - dramatically; as far as Tony was concerned, the arc reactor was way cooler than his actual heart, and as a bonus it was also on the inside _**and**_ outside of his body. Neat.

Tony looked again at the box he had been studying. "HOW TO HOST A MURDER." Awesome. It would be a great exercise in teamwork for their very first post-Chitauri dinner; Tony didn't really count the shawarma as a Team Dinner since Steve had fallen asleep in his pita and Clint had finally collapsed from exhaustion and malnutrition and passed out.

"It's perfect," Tony elaborated, watching carefully as the servers laid out beautiful platters and fine china. "We don't even need to create aliases! We've already got a soldier, a scientist, an assassin, a whatever the hell Clint is, a friggin' _**demigod**_ - you can't make this stuff up!" he said excitedly. "And of course the unfortunate yet devastatingly handsome playboy at the center of the drama … me!" Tony paused thoughtfully. "You know, our adventures would make an awesome movie." He shrugged this thought off and moved ahead with his planning, setting his specially-designed placecards down himself.

This was going to be so cool.

OoOoOoOoOo

Clint's face scrunched up as he noticed the small, decorative placecards on the immaculately laid-out table. "I guess this is your seat … Lady Romanoff," he said gallantly, pulling out the designated chair for her. Natasha gave him a black look but sat anyway. Steve picked up his card and read it with a frown.

"Colonel Capsicle?" he questioned. "That doesn't even make sense. You can't be a colonel and a captain at the same time."

Natasha waved at the chair next to hers. "I assume this seat is yours, Prince Barton."

"What, like from that stupid Costner movie?" Clint snarked, _hmmph_ing into his assigned chair testily. Doctor Thor and Detective Hulk also took their places, and once they were all seated Tony swept into the room like he'd been waiting for a cue.

Which, of course, he had been.

"Thank you for joining me for dinner tonight," Tony announced grandly, ignoring Bruce's soft, "well, it was free," comment. "I'd like to again officially welcome you all to Avengers Tower. Please enjoy your dinner."

Just as Tony sat, the lights went out.

Swiftly, as planned, Tony screeched dramatically and adjusted the fake dagger hilt strapped against his back - his shirt was already dyed crimson. He chomped down on a small pill already between his teeth, letting the fake blood spill out of the corner of his mouth as he carefully laid his head down on his plate, grateful that he had planned to have the lights out before dinner was served so he wouldn't end up with a face full of roasted red potatoes.

Tony schooled his features with great effort and counted down the moments til JARVIS would turn the power back on.

When the lights flicked back on, the first thing the team noticed was that Bruce's water glass was mysteriously missing. And then they noticed Tony facedown in his plate, blood leaking from his mouth and the handle of a dagger protruding from his back.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Clint said testily, breaking the silence. "That's it, I'm moving into the refrigerator box."

"Are we still going to be able to live here if Stark's dead?" Natasha wanted to know.

"Oh, dear God!" Steve shouted, leaping from his chair, but was halted by JARVIS who announced in a surprisingly animated voice,

"Oh dear, it appears Master Stark has been murdered! Please stay back so you don't contaminate the crime scene while I notify the proper authorities." They could almost swear there was a longsuffering sigh in the AI's voice as JARVIS added with overblown suspicion: "But which one of you could have done this?"

"Well, that's not a fair question. Every one of us has a motive," Clint pointed out. Everyone turned to look at him in varying degrees of disbelief and Clint crossed his arms defensively. "What?" he asked. "The guy's an asshole. And it's okay for me to say that since I can be an asshole too."

Tony frowned into his plate. This wasn't turning out at all how he'd planned.

"Well, that's true, you can be," Natasha said, but since there wasn't any disdain in her voice it was practically a declaration of undying love from the cold assassin. Clint

gave her a warm smile and squeezed her hand under the table.

"I feel like we should be more concerned about this," Bruce said, rising from his chair to sort of wander in the prone billionaire's general direction.

JARVIS, really trying to be helpful, said again, a little louder: "But _**which**_ one of you could have _**done**_ this?"

"I dunno," Clint shrugged, as he reached for the lid on the platter closest to him. "I wonder what's for dinner," he muttered. Steve and Bruce stared at him, aghast. "What?" Clint demanded again. "Geez. This is the most defensive I've been at dinner since I dated Fury's daughter."

"What?" snapped Natasha, and Clint said hastily,

"But I _**WONDER**_ which one of us could have done this horrific thing!"

"Who cares!" Natasha snapped, rising from the table in a huff and storming out as she called, "You're gonna be next!"

"You dated Director Fury's daughter?" Steve asked, eyes wide, apparently shocked into forgetting the dead billionaire at the table, and Clint shrugged.

"She only invited me over once." He grinned, his face contorting into the expression of someone trying very hard not to laugh. "Her dad and I didn't see eye to eyes."

It was very quiet at the table for a moment.

Then Tony giggled.

Steve looked on helplessly, clearly confused because he had an "Is this really how we do things in this day and age?" expression plastered across his face. "Tony? We should probably call an ambulance, right?"

"No need!" Thor boomed, forgotten until this moment. "I can shock him back to life with my lightning!"

"All right, this is pathetic," Tony snapped, sitting up quickly. "You guys are the worst group of friends ever! I hate you all!"

"Oh, my God," Clint exclaimed sounding somehow both theatrical and bored, "He's back from the dead!"

Steve's eyes were watering suspiciously. "You consider us _friends_?" he asked moistly.

"I'm gonna see if this place has HBO," Bruce said, wandering off with Thor in tow. Steve, still blinking wetly, excused himself to follow, leaving Tony and Clint staring at each other over the table. Tony looked so disappointed that Clint felt compelled to say kindly,

"You know Natasha and I knew the knife was fake as soon as we saw it. Otherwise we would have been totally worried you were dead."

Tony cheered a little at that. "I guess I should've known I couldn't fool you two." He looked at Clint curiously. "So … Fury's daughter, huh?" he mused. Clint grinned and Tony groaned. He grinned too, though. "Fury doesn't have a daughter, does he?"

Clint actually laughed. "Nope."

"So you made that up, clearly risking Romanoff cutting your balls off while you sleep, just as an excuse to use that horrible pun in the middle of my murder?"

Clint nodded. "Yup."

Tony grinned widely. "Fucking fantastic. Let the bromance commence! I, Anthony Edward Stark, take you, Clinton Hawkeye Barton, to be my lawfully bonded partner in crime and general tricks and chicanery, in slickness and in stealth, joined together heretofor in the mutual purpose of driving our towermates absolutely batshit crazy both now and forevermore."

Clint somehow managed to stop laughing long enough to add solemnly, "So let it be written, so let it be done."

And thus was the bane of the other inhabits of Avengers Tower formed.

OoOoOoOoOo

Next: Steve and Thor are tasked with the chore of cooking breakfast. It doesn't go well. It's a good thing Clint and Tony are so helpful.

NOW: REVIEW! Please? Even if you don't have any suggestions, it's still nice to know if you think it's funny. :D


	3. Day Two: Techno Breakfast

lol! I have gotten some of the best suggestions for this fic - I cannot wait to incorporate them. If you think of anything you'd like to see, review/pm me! And please review even if you don't have a suggestion, I love to hear from readers! It's very Muse-inspiring, which means faster updates. :D

I can't say it enough: thank you for the reviews/favorites/follows!

OoOoOoOoOo

**Unlikely Housemates**

By: Syntyche

Day Two: Techno Breakfast

Steve Rogers felt like he should be proud of himself. He had, he thought, very sensibly pointed out that since the six of them were capable, fully-functioning adults, they really didn't need cooks and housekeepers and people waiting on them hand and foot. If you were big enough to save the world, Steve reasoned, you were big enough to separate your own whites and darks.

Tony had eventually capitulated, but only under the condition that he was allowed to design a chore wheel so they would all have a fair share of work to do. Oddly enough, Tony's name slot on the chart was very extremely tiny, meaning he had only about a 5% chance of actually being assigned any chores, while Steve's name showed up on every other slot, giving him 50% of the chart while their other four teammates took 10% each and 5% was assigned to 'Dummy', which Steve wondered worriedly if that was supposed to be him also.

Tony had also thought it was extremely clever to make the chore wheel look like Steve's shield, only it was made out of cardboard instead of vibranium.

Steve had drawn breakfast for their second day in the tower, along with Thor. Natasha and Pepper (who didn't have a slot on the chart since she was already occupied with being the CEO of Stark Industries, plus keeping Tony busy was like a second full-time job) had tried to nominate Clint for all-time cook, but the archer had snippily pointed out that just because he had _**one time **_gone undercover as a chef didn't mean he was going to cook for them _**all**_ the time, thanks very much. Clint had strengthened his case by adding that just because he'd also once gone undercover as the team leader of an Army EOD unit, that didn't mean they wanted him to just go around trying to defuse bombs, _**did they**_? Well, _**did they?**_ The other Avengers had reluctantly agreed, and cooking meals was added to the chore wheel, and consequently assigned to Steve and Thor for this morning.

The problem was, neither of them really knew how to cook at all, let alone in a kitchen as monstrous and high-tech as Tony's. So it wasn't going very well.

At the moment, Steve was peering at a small device sitting compliantly on the countertop, whirring quietly and waiting patiently to be used. Stark had specifically included this machine as a breakfast essential, and Steve was determined that his breakfast would not be found wanting by any of his team.

"What is it?" the soldier asked helplessly, glaring with all the intensity Captain America would muster if he were assessing a particularly hostile situation. There were a _**lot**_ of buttons. And some knobs. And a few spouts.

Thor shrugged; he'd found his promised Pop Tart cabinet and had become essentially useless after that. Now he sat with his booted feet up on the table as he chugged cherry Pop Tarts like he was going for a world record; at Steve's frustrated look, however, he sighed gustily and lumbered over to Steve's side. He looked intently at the machine for a second, then stabbed a long finger at one of the buttons decisively. The machine hummed and whirred and began to spit steam from a nozzle. Thor sputtered and jumped back, wiping his face on his sleeveless arm.

"Surely this foul device caters only to the lowest _bilge snipe_!" he announced disdainfully, with just a trace of glee in his voice: _bilge snipe_ had become one of Thor's favorite phrases since he'd discovered it was by far one of his easiest Asgardian references to explain, and also he could flex his muscles while indicating their antlers. Now Tony was a _bilge snipe_ if he left his laundry lying around, and Steve was a _bilge snipe_ if he ate the last of the Cool Ranch Doritos.

And it had only been one day.

"I shall fix this with the Might of Thor!" the demigod announced grandly, and from somewhere Mjolner came whistling through the air, nearly taking out Bruce as he wandered to the bathroom; Thor caught the hammer deftly and proceeded to send a jolt of lightening directly into the offending machine, which crackled and sparked but somehow still failed to produce whatever its intended purpose was.

"Oh," said Thor. "Perhaps that was not my best idea."

Clint wandered in, blinking and yawning and scratching his hair, sending sandy spikes sticking out here and there. He looked so … unfearsome … and normal, it was strange. Then he stretched to snag a plate from the cupboard and Steve saw the handgun tucked into the waist of his pajama pants.

"Morning," Clint mumbled, looking at the two men hunched helplessly over the small, smoking machine in the corner and a furrow crossed his face; he opted to ignore them completely and went instead to the tiny, un-fancy coffee maker tucked away on the counter's edge to start a pot of black coffee.

"Good morning, tiny and valiant archer!" Thor boomed cheerfully, Steve nodded a distracted greeting as he pressed another button and got nothing good for his efforts, just a crackle of electricity that jolted through his fingertip. "This is ridiculous!" he finally exploded. "What am I supposed to do with this?"

Clint gave him an odd look and plodded over to press a tiny button in the center of the machine. The machine hissed and whirred and after a moment fragrant dark coffee began to pour into the waiting pot.

"Ta da," Clint said dryly. "Espresso."

"Well done, tiny archer!" Thor congratulated warmly, as if Clint had just done something amazing. Clint sighed out a "_**please**_ stop calling me that," and retrieved his now-full coffee pot, dumping cream and sugar directly into the pot and swirling it around before slowly sipping appreciatively.

Steve frowned. Apparently Clint didn't believe in either sharing, or coffee mugs. "I think the chore wheel was a bad idea," he admitted.

"Nah, it's cool," Clint replied, glancing at the offending object by the far wall, looking for his name. "In fact today I get to 'swab the deck.' What the hell?" He moved through the pile of discarded Pop Tart wrappers littering the floor to closer study the tiny scribbled drawing of a pirate ship decorating his slice of the chore pie, then swiped a pencil from the jar on the countertop and busied himself changing the 'e' in 'deck' to an 'i'.

Tony strolled in, looking pleased with himself as always, but his smug demeanor faded slightly when he took in the crispy, wheezing espresso machine, and the fact that Clint was gleefully adding letters to the chore wheel to make all of Tony's carefully thought-up tasks into something dirty.

Thor was rummaging through the fridge. "Do not trouble yourself, Captain of America! I shall make _fluggernuggets_ for break of fast and we shall revel in their magnificent strength-providing nutrients while we regale each other with tales of our glorious pasts!"

Clint and Steve shared a look. Somehow 'carnie' and '90-pound-weakling' probably weren't the epic stories Thor was looking for.

Steve, being Steve, mustered a warmly encouraging smile. "That's great, Thor. How can I help?"

Thor was glaring at the refrigerator like its contents had personally wronged him; apparently Tony hadn't stocked up on Asgardian groceries lately. "Where are the Grobenschnauff heads?" he demanded.

Steve frowned.

"… Ask Tony."

OoOoOoOoOo

Totally awesome kudos to Bibliophile109 for the idea of Thor cooking and the Grobenschnauff heads! And to Ceeuu for !TechnologicallyIlliterate Steve and Thor, of which there will be more upcoming. :D I love goofy Thor, he's ridiculous.

Next: Tony's bad spelling catches up with him…


	4. Day Four: A Little Too Much You

I don't even know what to say about this chapter. Seriously.

**Unlikely Housemates**

By: Syntyche

Day Four: A Little Too Much You

It had quickly become a well-known fact throughout Avengers Tower that Tony Stark didn't bother with proper spelling. There was absolutely nothing that compelled the genius-inventor-chore wheel designer to even try; if it didn't get auto-corrected by Pepper or Jarvis, you were on your own in deciphering Stark's garbled messages.

This wasn't a problem for any of the other Avengers - they were slowly learning each other's odd quirks and triggers - except for the Avenger for whom English was not his first language.

On this particular day, Clint found himself utterly, completely, and inexplicably bored. He'd already been to the indoor range three times, the gym twice, and through the air vents a time or seven: he'd actually managed to map out a complete path through the vents that would ensure he wouldn't actually have to walk the halls of Avengers Tower at all if he so chose.

It wasn't in Clint's nature to sit still unless he was on an assignment that required it. Unfortunately, the Council was still working through Clint's involvement in the whole Loki thing, and Clint was essentially grounded until further notice. He'd only really agreed to move to Stark's because he very clearly wasn't welcome on SHIELD bases right now, and Natasha had kicked the crap out of four agents who'd _**dared**_ to look at Clint like he didn't belong there. For her sake - and because Phil had very calmly asked them to create as little extra paperwork for him as possible since he was extremely busy right now - Clint had irritably acquiesced, and now the man famous around SHIELD for being an antisocial loner was living in a college-style _Avengers House_ nightmare, complete with togas (courtesy of Thor as a towerwarming gift), group dinners, and game nights.

It was exhausting and ridiculous, and Hawkeye felt stupid and useless. It wasn't the first time he'd been grounded, but it _**was**_ the first time he'd been so without an end date in sight.

This afternoon Clint was prowling the halls aimlessly, munching on a _fluggernugget_, when he wandered past the immense and impressive game room - not like a trophy room, but an actual game room with air hockey, a pool table, skeeball lanes, and an entire area of video and computer gaming equipment complete with a half-dozen enormous TVs for multiple player action.

Something seemed … odd about the actions of the lone individual inside, so the archer doubled back, and leaned in the doorway with a smirk.

"Hey, Thor. Whatcha doin'?" Clint asked curiously, watching as Thor methodically removed his weapons and cape, setting them aside reverently over the back of one of the couches.

Thor glanced at him, a wide smile breaking across his extremely proportionate face. "Greetings, tiny archer!" he boomed cheerfully, the strength of his voice reverberating around the room. "Did you also receive the Man of Iron's invitation on your cell-u-lar device?"

"Invitation?" Clint raised an eyebrow and reached out to take the proffered cell phone; Thor's moved on to undoing buckles and cinches, and Clint estimated he had about three minutes to figure out what's going on and then get the hell out. "To what, exactly?" he asked cautiously as Thor's belt _thunked!_ to the floor. Clint hastily looked down at the screen in his hand for answers.

He immediately recognized Tony's texting style, squinting to make out the words - not an easy thing to do, because even though Tony was friggin' brilliant, he couldn't spell worth a damn and his texts were horrendous.

"'GR 4 inst 3. Rning l8 - bare w me,'" Clint read aloud slowly, and first he remembered that _riiiiiiiiight,_ new Call of Duty out today and Tony had wanted them all to meet in the Game Room at 3 to give it a go. Then Clint reread the last part of the text and sputtered on a choked gasp as he realized what was happening when Thor shrugged out of his overshirt with a languid stretch worthy of a supermodel.

"Um… Thor … " the archer began awkwardly, thinking it was ironic that he had to explain proper spelling to someone since he'd never had much formal education himself, but Tony would probably piss himself if he walked into the game room to find Thor waiting to compare their manly bodies …

And then Clint stopped.

And smiled.

"So you're meeting Tony here at 4 to … ?" he prompted, and Thor grinned ferociously.

"Compare physical attributes and war wounds!" he finished cheerfully, pleased that humans were not as meek and modest as he'd first thought.

Clint nodded, suspicions confirmed, biting his bottom lip to keep from grinning like a maniac. Instead he asked carefully, "Is this … something you do … **_often_** … on Asgard?" and Thor pumped his fist in the air enthusiastically, so exuberantly cheerful it actually made Clint feel like he should make an effort to research Asgardian customs so the demigod might feel a little less homesick. Not _**this**_ custom, though: there was no way in hell he was participating in this little tradition.

"Of course, noble Hawkeye! My friends and I would often compare our strength and bodies, particularly after a glorious battle in which new victory scars are acquired!"

"Mmhmm. And you did this … naked?" Clint asked, trying desperately to ignore the mental image of the Avengers men parading around the locker room making a comparative study of their teammates.

Thor's brow rumpled as he finally began to get the impression that something wasn't quite right. "Of course," he said ponderously, "how else to best admire each other?"

The way Thor worded this struck Clint as uproariously funny, but with some stern reliance on SHIELD's extremely thorough anti-interrogation techniques he managed to keep a straight face. "Of course," he agreed. "Just so. Absolutely right."

"Do you not also do this?" Thor questioned hesitantly, and Clint nodded vigorously.

"Yes. Yes, of course we do," he assured, and _**maaaaaybe**_ he felt just the littlest bit evil. But it wasn't his fault he's grounded and bored.

Thor smiled broadly and went for the buckle of his pants. "Excellent! Will you join us then, noble archer? I'm sure you have some fine scars to display!"

Clint coughed back a giggle at the invitation and squeaked, "No, no, I can't." He dropped his voice conspiratorially, still heroically trying not to hurt Thor's feelings. "Natasha doesn't like it when I show off."

Thor nodded in complete understanding, and Clint added helpfully, "But I'll just see what's keeping Tony. And Steve."

Clint ducked out of the room, texting furiously. Steve, just down the hall, received Clint's message and immediately and Captainly strode to the game room just in time to be greeted by more Thor than he had _**ever**_ wanted to see in his entire life, including the seventy years of it he'd spent asleep.

A few moments later, Tony sped in, Call of Duty in one hand as he read Clint's message to report to the game room ASAP. He heard Thor's raucous laughter as he bumped into Steve's shoulder; Tony snapped his phone shut and looked up for the duo. "Cap! Thor! Are you Lethally Blondes ready for some action … "

Steve was making small choking noises in his throat, ironically frozen where he stood. Tony's eyes darted over Cap's stiff shoulder to land on a completely naked Thor grinning at him expectantly as the demigod announced gleefully,

"Come, let us bare together Captain of America and Man of Iron! We shall share glorious tales and compare battle scars while we indulge in wine and song! Bring on the wenches!"

"Barton, you are a dead man," Tony muttered.

OoOoOoOoOo

Okay, I honestly don't know if this scenario is funny to anyone else, but something like this is exactly what I picture every time I see the misspelled phrase "bare with me," and this little plot bunny that wouldn't go away was actually how this fic came to be. Consider it exorcised, and again, apologies if no one else found this funny… bare with me, I have a weird sense of humor.

Ha! See what I did there? lol.

Next: Of _**course**_ the quarantined Avengers can amuse themselves like normal adults, right? Right? Fury finds out the expensive way that he may need to assign a babysitter to his elite team … and fortunately, he knows just the agent for the job.


	5. Day Six: It Was Too Wet to Play

This chapter is a little on the long side, but I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it! This chapter would not have been possible without the awesome input of Proclaim Thy Warrior Soul, Party-Like-A-Hawkstar (omg, I _**love**_ that! .. Wait, can I use that?), Narnian Sprite, and Pharaonin, so thanks and kudos to them if you like it (but an equal share of the blame if you don't! XD)

I don't think I've ever said this about my own work, but I absolutely love this chapter, and it's thanks to input from readers who have these awesome ideas that I adore writing about. Please continue to offer suggestions if you think of any, and please review if you'd like to see this story continue, that way I'll know when this ridiculous premise has worn out its welcome. ;D

**Unlikely Housemates**

By: Syntyche

Day Six: It Was Too Wet To Play

9:57 a.m.

"The sun did not shine.

"It was too wet to play.

"So the hawk and I sat under quarantine,

"All that cold, cold wet day," Tony finished, and he seemed inexplicably pleased with himself as he gave Clint an encouraging raise of the eyebrows clearly intended to show that he expected a smattering of applause, perhaps, or at least an approving grin. Clint tried to oblige, to commend Tony's poetic license, but the rain beating against the large picture windows was distracting and depressing. Clint twirled the long black arrow between his fingers and sighed.

"Don't be a dingy bird, Feathers," Tony added cheerfully, with only the slightest frown at being ignored. "Be glad the bad guys are taking the day off too since we're all stuck inside like naughty children with our hands inside the nookie jar."

Clint flashed him a look that was part amused, part aggrieved. "Do you even listen to the crap that comes out of your mouth?" he demanded, an epic furrow creasing his forehead. Hawkeye was known throughout SHIELD as a man of intensity, and his furrows were both intimidating to the untrained eye and also legendary.

Tony parroted Clint's look back at him, only his furrow fell somewhat short of his mark, like an assassin aiming for the heart but only managing to wing their target in the back right knee. "I always listen to everything that both comes out of and goes into my mouth," he said seriously. He and Clint regarded each hesitantly for a moment, neither quite knowing where to take _**that**_ conversation next, then Clint sighed again gustily.

"It's just … " and the archer stumbled a little awkwardly as he admitted, "I don't like being cooped up."

"What bird does?" Tony asked sagely, and Clint grimaced.

"You know I'm not really a bird, right?"

It didn't escape Clint's notice that Tony didn't bother to answer the question; the inventor-poet-playboy just grinned in his typical wolfish way and announced gleefully, "Not to worry, little hawk, the Cat in the Hat is here, and I know of lots of fun things that are funny!"

"Like _**not**_ butchering Dr. Seuss?" Clint wanted to know, and yeah, the archer admitted he was being surly, but the team had been under quarantine for two full days now already and he was going just a little stir crazy: he was actually beginning to wonder if he'd sleep better if he put an arrow through his _**own**_ eye socket.

"Aww, I didn't know the little Clint That Could even knew who Dr. Seuss was!" Tony remarked, sounding inordinately pleased with himself for his wordplay. "Good job, little Clint!"

Clint knew that Tony was still sulking about the naked Thor thing: the archer himself hadn't witnessed the full glory of Thor's majesty, but he _**had**_ noticed that Steve blushed furiously and made tiny choking noises every time he ran into Thor into the hallways, muttering something along the lines of "… _incomprehensible…_"

"Thanks," Clint said dryly; he pushed himself to his feet gracefully, tucked the arrow he was toying with into the quiver slung low around his hips, and brushed his fingers on his jeans absently.

"I think I'll see what Agent Romanoff is up to," he said innocently, but Tony halted him with an excitedly upraised finger.

"Wait! I have a better idea," Tony said, his brown eyes flashing in delight. "Teambuilding day!"

Clint frowned. "How is that a better idea?"

Tony grinned. "How is that _**not**_ a better idea?"

10:43 a.m.

"WOOT! Boardwalk, suckas!" Tony laughed, tossing money at Steve, the banker, who frowned at Tony's crass language but took the cash anyway, putting it neatly into the proper slots. "I'll buy it, of course," Stark announced grandly, rifling through his impressive stack of cash, "and I'm immediately building ten hotels apiece on both Boardwalk and Park Place."

"You know, this game would be much less intimidating if we weren't using real money," Bruce pointed out in his wry, soft voice that always made him sound embarrassed about whatever he was saying.

"I know," Tony agreed, "but since it belongs to yours truly, we don't need the little fake Canadian money that it comes with. Your turn, bitch!" When all sets of eyes darted to him in disbelief and Natasha went for her guns, Tony raised his hands innocently. "What? I was referring to the tiny metal dog that is the dear Captain's choice of game piece." As an aside, Tony grimaced dramatically and stage-whispered to Clint on his left: "Seriously, what _**dude**_ picks the little Scottie dog?"

Steve rolled his eyes. "Thanks … or whatever." He tossed the dice with a casual flick of his wrist as if he were giving orders to them to roll exactly how he wanted them; it must have worked because he landed on Free Parking, and with only a small, barely gloating smile Steve scooped up the pile of cash in the middle of the board.

"That'll buy a lot of punching bags," Clint opined dryly and perhaps a little bitterly: his cannon piece had only missed the Free Parking space by one on his last turn, and SHIELD was still docking his pay for damages to the helicarrier. Between Clint and Bruce, they owed New York taxpayers a pretty sizable chunk of change.

"It is the fair Agent Romanoff's turn!" Thor interrupted, clearly impatient to get to his roll: his wheelbarrow had been stuck directly in jail his last two turns and the demigod feared he was falling behind his teammates in their capitalistic pursuit of land acquisition and building construction. But at least he had stopped shouting, "For Asgard!" every time he purchased a property.

Natasha snarled, throwing the dice on the board in irritation; she'd been hell to deal with the past few days: the assassin had been closest to the explosion in the villain of the week's lab that had resulted in the team's quarantine, and she'd caught some splatter. Fortunately the worst it had done - apart from contaminating them all - was turn her flaming red hair green, which displeased the Black Widow greatly (Tony's initial comment about wondering if the carpet still matched the drapes was met with a thoroughly grossed-out silence, including from Tony himself, who was rarely contrite about anything he said but really, _**really**_ regretted voicing that comment aloud.)

Even without trying, Natasha rolled snake eyes, which annoyed Thor mightily since he'd been unable to roll doubles his last few times and now had to post his own bail, but he took it in good stride; it was really difficult for the hammer-wielding demigod of lightning to feel depressed while he was wearing low-riding skinny jeans, because Thor knew that he looked damn good in them.

Damn good.

"Again?" Steve questioned disbelievingly, in a hushed whisper that was supposed to be discreet but of course everybody heard. "She always rolls snake eyes."

"It's a talent," Natasha snarked, her upper lip curled in irritation as she moved her pistol and picked up the little yellow card as directed. "I'm sick of this game. It's so boring!"

"Why?" Tony interjected with a grin, "Don't want to share your Community Chest?"

He received murderous glares from the two assassins at the table, but Steve's blush was totally worth it.

1:01 p.m.

"Hide-and-seek is for children," Natasha said disdainfully. Her mood had _**not**_ improved, even after they'd lunched on carrot sticks and chocolate milk and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches that Pepper had very thoughtfully cut all of the crusts off of.

"You think _**everything **_is for children," Tony retorted cheerfully. "Love. Build-a-Bears. Eating the filling out of Oreos and putting the cookie bits back in the bag - "

"That _**was**_ childish," Clint put in snippily, "I really wanted some damn Oreos, not crumbly Tony leftovers."

" - footie pajamas," Tony continued, ticking items off on his fingers.

"Those garments of exceeding comfort are most certainly _**not**_ only for children!" Thor remarked sulkily; after he'd been caught parading around Stark tower stark naked in the middle of the night - he was apparently unaccustomed to 'nighttime clothing' - Tony (with some artistic input from Clint) had purchased for the demigod the brightest, fuzziest, most ridiculous looking footie pajamas they could find in a size that would fit the tall warrior. Thor loved them.

"Gamma Green Hulk Hands - "

"Those are just embarrassing," Bruce said, burying his face in his regular-size hands.

"Using Cap's shield as a sled on the stairs - "

"Extremely inappropriate and dangerous," Steve added sternly, with an exceptionally judgingly parental shake of his head at the inventor and the archer, neither of whom had the good grace to even look the remotest bit ashamed. Tony actually waggled his splinted wrist at the soldier gleefully, and Clint's bright eyes stood out even more against his darkening shiner.

"My point is," Tony said, inching carefully close to the Russian assassin, "that sometimes it's okay to be childish." One of his long forefingers landed gracefully on Natasha's shoulder. "And you're it!" Then he was off, tearing gleefully down the hall in search of the perfect hiding place.

Natasha blew out a sharp breath and looked at the remaining men, all of them shuffling awkwardly. "Can you believe him?" she asked testily.

"You have to count to one hundred," Bruce said plaintively, and then he too bolted, Steve right behind him and Thor disappearing down the opposite direction with a war cry that echoed through the hallway. Natasha sighed heavily.

"Why should I be surprised at the levels of childishness, when clearly I'm living with a bunch of children?" she wondered, looking to Clint for agreement. The archer shrugged, but all he said with a grin was,

"Don't forget you have to close your eyes when you count, Nat."

2:56 p.m.

"Now this is _**much**_ better," Natasha said with satisfaction as she peered over her cards at the men seated around the table. Tony was frowning into his drink, clearly wishing it would provide more excitement than it currently was, and Bruce had inadvertently been giving away all of his good hands - apparently the Hulk enjoyed poker because the scientist's eyes would flash green when he had a particularly decent set of cards, resulting in everyone else at the table immediately folding.

"I call," Natasha said, cracking the thin smile that was her version of shouting "in your face!" with some sort of unflattering Russian epithet tacked on to the end.

A chorus of groans rose up to meet her announcement.

"It isn't fair playing with you," Tony fussed. "You have the best poker face _**ever**_."

4:33 p.m.

It turned out that Steve, for all of his demure blushing about not knowing how to dance, was surprisingly good at Dance Dance Revolution. Natasha gave him a run for his money, but when the non-poker chips were down (Steve had actually been worse than Bruce at poker, something about an innate inability to lie, cheat, and deceive,) Cap really had it going on and even the Russian was breathlessly forced to concede.

Tony tossed a handful of popcorn into his mouth, supremely pleased that his Day of Teambuilding was going about as well, if not better, than he'd planned. Everyone looked more relaxed and happy, and sweaty in a good way and not an I-just-got-the-crap-kicked-out-of-me kind of way.

Everyone except …

Tony did a double-take.

"Hey, where's Feathers?" he asked suddenly, and it occurred to the assembled that the archer was indeed missing.

"I haven't seen him since hide and seek," Bruce finally commented, after thinking for a moment.

"That little bugger," Tony snarked darkly, "is _**not**_ taking my hide-and-seek victory! Jarvis?"

The AI answered promptly, sounding apologetic as was its wont. "I'm sorry, sir, but Agent Barton instructed me that if you were ever to inquire as to his whereabouts, I was to inform you to … ehm … go do highly inappropriate things to yourself, sir, and leave him 'the hell alone.'"

Tony's eyebrows shot up. "Wow. That guy is serious about his hide-and-seek."

"Actually, sir," Jarvis returned, "that protocol has been in place since Agent Barton moved in."

Tony ignored that, swinging his attention back to the clustered group. "Listen up, Avengers! First person to bring down Barton gets ten grand." Tony frowned, grimly irritated; he'd been so sure he'd won the hide-and-seek game, victory was not about to be snatched from his grasp. "I. Don't. Lose," he muttered.

5:59 p.m.

"I give up!" Tony finally said. "This is friggin' ridiculous." The inventor gave Jarvis the signal to amplify his voice. "All right, birdbrain, you win!"

The vent over their heads slid back and Clint dropped down to land lightly in the middle of the group.

"Cool," he said nonchalantly.

7:08 p.m.

"Okay, everyone clear on their objectives?" Tony barked, gesturing to the floating display of the map of Stark Tower, battle zones clearly highlighted in red, safe zones in blue. "If you have any questions, now is the time!"

Steve raised his hand slowly. "What are we playing, again?" he asked tentatively.

"Humans versus Zombies!" Tony snapped back. "Next question!"

"If we're the zombies, do we actually have to eat each other?" Natasha asked dryly, clearly amused by Stark's delving deep into his character as a human team leader. His level of commitment was awesome to behold.

"No!" Tony snapped. "Never go full zombie! Next question!"

"Does our SHIELD insurance plan cover injuries sustained while playing games like this?" Bruce asked reasonably.

"Fury'll never find out so it doesn't matter!" Tony answered swiftly, clearly eager to get moving. "Anything else?"

"Do we have to play this?" Clint wanted to know; for some reason none of them had yet uncovered, Clint had an unusually strong fear of zombies (and also of being burned alive.)

"Yes!" Tony's sharp eyes settled on each member of his group: they were short only Thor, who had cheerfully agreed to be zombie number one and was currently doing whatever Thor did when he was alone that no one else in the Tower was even remotely curious about.

"Now, do I need to explain further?" Tony growled, adjusting his bright bandana and cocking his Nerf gun dramatically, "_Or can we just crack on?_"

11:22 p.m.

It hasn't even been a week since the Avengers all assembled at Stark Tower. One _**week.**_ And now here Phil Coulson is on the doorstop, arriving just as the EMTs are leaving; they look at him and shake their collective heads, the "thank God they're _**your**_ problem now" sign very clearly illuminated as they huff out.

Phil enters the lounge area just in time to hear Stark say, "Now _**that**_ was a great game," and try as Phil might to keep a bland expression firmly pasted across his face, he can't keep his jaw from dropping just slightly as he takes in the six figures clumped around on couches and the floor, all with varying degrees of injuries, all with satisfied and exhausted expressions on their bruised faces. Someone had very thoughtfully tossed a blanket over Banner, who had clearly Hulked out at some point but was back to being Banner-sized now, just naked and asleep in the corner.

"Phil! S'up, man?"

Clint gives him a sunny smile, and Phil's seen Clint hyped up on painkillers enough times that he knows that's exactly what he's seeing now. Clint's holding an icepack against Natasha's shoulder; she gives Phil a thin smile too, her green-haired head nodding sleepily against the tattered t-shirt still clinging to Clint's chest.

"Hey, Phil!" Tony chirps, not bothering to lift his head from resting against the back of the couch; apparently when Tony isn't quite in his right mind it's much easier for him to remember that Phil's first name isn't "Agent."

"Did you all have a fun day?" Phil asks dryly. "Sure looks like it."

Thor raises his forehead from where his crossed arms are propped up by the table, peering at Phil through strands of stringy blonde hair. "It was a day of exceeding joviality and bonding," he comments fuzzily, dropping his head back to his arms with a contented sigh as he passes out again.

"Apparently I'm a great dancer but a horrible zombie," Rogers informs him, an odd amount of pride in his voice as he burrows deeper into his plush chair, cradling his right hand carefully. "But we won anyways. Go zombies!"

"Go zombies!" Tony giggles in agreement, eyes still closed as he pumps a fist in the air enthusiastically.

Phil had been initially put out at his new assignment as babysitter, hastily given to him after word of uncontrolled chaos at Stark Tower had reached SHIELD less than an hour ago. Fury had assured him he'd be perfect for the job: after all, Coulson kept Hawkeye and the Black Widow in line, so how hard could it be to add a few more to watch?

The handler/babysitter hides a smile as he looks at the already-snoring or almost there group. Right. How hard can it be?

Phil hands his suitcase to Tony, asks Jarvis for directions, and marches off to his new room.

OoOoOoOoOo

And this chapter is what happens with three hours' sleep, MI:4, and a pint of Ben and Jerry's Double Chocolate Fudge Brownie ice cream. Siiiiiigh. Brandt is so delicious - I need to stop writing fanfic so I have time to read it instead! Also not sure why Phil's part suddenly switched tenses, it just seemed to fit right. Please review if you liked this chapter!

Next: The team goes out for dinner, Clint celebrates an anniversary, and Tony and Clint get very, very drunk …


	6. Day Nine: Dinner and a Show

Thanks for the great feedback on the last chapter! Kudos to readers who caught the references to Game of Shadows, 28 Weeks Later, and Tropic Thunder; RDJ and Jeremy Renner have very attentive fans!

Oh, man, Jeremy Renner on SNL was just … awesome … and gave the Muse the little extra push to finish this next chapter in the ongoing saga of our heroes and their trials of domesticity. Super-thanks to Party-Like-A-Hawkstar for introducing me to the phrase "party like a Hawkstar," for thus TipsyMusical!Clint was born…

**Unlikely Housemates**

By: Syntyche

Day Nine: Dinner and a Show

"Does this feel really strange to anyone else?" Bruce asked, his eyes squinching in the little wince they often did while he spoke; it gave the odd impression that Bruce was pretty much perturbed about _**everything**_, and not so much that he was always "angry," as he proudly maintained, but more like he was always "anxious" and "unhappy."

"Nah, this is great!" Tony chirped, tossing his jacket on the seat in front of him as he slid into the opposite booth from Bruce and Steve. "Real, non-burnt food for a change!"

The chore wheel's randomly designated cooking chore wasn't working out so well; failed cooking attempts from Steve, Natasha, and most recently Phil (who was not happy to have been added to the chore wheel, since he considered 'babysitting' a full-time job already), had resulted in a _**lot**_ of takeout being delivered to Avengers Tower, or - like tonight - dinners out.

"Agreed!" Thor announced gustily, _fwipping_ his cape over his shoulder with a flourish as he hunkered his large and manly frame into the narrow booth space. One grin from the demigod was enough to attract the attention of several waitresses, and over the noise of the ensuing catfight over who would actually wait on Thor's table, the warrior called regally, "Barmaids! Six glasses of your finest mead, please!"

"Thor," Steve sighed - and his heartfelt sigh was enough to add a few swooning _**customers**_ to the brawl over waitressing for the Avengers - "This is Applebee's."

"I do not understand," Thor rumbled ponderously, his regal brow crinkling mightily. "Do they not serve mead here?"

"I knew we should have just gotten pizza," Phil mumbled longingly; somehow, despite the cramped seating arrangements, he was as immaculately dressed and wrinkle-free as ever.

"I knew we should have stayed home," Clint interjected grumpily, ignoring the scuffle of women winding down behind him as he hooked a chair from a nearby table with his foot and plunked down beside his teammates. He crossed his arms, looking thoroughly put out at being dragged out of the air vents to partake in yet another team activity; Pepper seemed to think that after they'd destroyed most of Manhattan _while saving it _that the Avengers really needed to do some public awareness and photo ops of them _**not**_ smashing and obliterating, but doing more "normal people," things. Clint had smartly pointed out that they were part of the Avengers' Initiative because they _**weren't**_ normal people - except for him, he maintained, _**he**_ was just a guy with a bow and should be excluded from these sorts of field trips.

Pepper had disagreed, and that was the end of it.

"Oh, don't be such a fussbudget and just enjoy it, all of you," Tony grinned, waving and winking at the battered waitresses (and other random people both in and out of the groaning pile on the floor.) He pointed at Bruce, trying to hide behind his blooming onion. "_**You**_ need to get out more," - Steve - "_**you**_ need to meet some ladies under 100 years old," - Clint - "_**you**_ need to loosen up," - Phil - "_**you**_ … well, you're kinda scary so I have no suggestions for you since I don't want to be killed by a pinstripe tie," Tony moved on hastily to Thor - "and _**you**_ need to not be so _blah blah blah who stolest minest tightest whitest undergarments_ and learn how to just order a friggin' beer."

Thor frowned sulkily. "Those were a gift from Jane," he mumbled.

"TMI, Rider of Rohan," Tony waved off the warrior's protests and held up a hand. "Hey! Can we get some service here or what?"

OoOoOoOoOo

Clint was used to Natasha not being around; it was a matter-of-fact part of their lives that they were rarely in the same place at the same time, but that didn't make her absence any easier - especially on nights like tonight, where even the large room with the floor-to-ceiling windows that Tony had provided him with was too small, too confining.

He'd been on his way to the roof to quietly celebrate an anniversary he didn't want to remember when he'd passed the music room and for reasons he himself was unsure of, changed course and ducked inside instead.

The archer wasn't too worried about anyone hearing him - it was pretty late - so he snagged the acoustic sitting in the corner and settled it across his knee, checking and tuning with the ease of years of practice. Clint had a smattering of musical knowledge, mostly from undercover assignments, but since he'd been - and was still - unofficially grounded for his part in the Tessaract theft (mind control or no, the Council didn't seem to care), the archer had taken to spending just a little more time here, concentrating more on chords and keys so he'd think less on crazed demigods and unwilling destruction caused by his own hand. In no time he was strumming a Billy Joel tune and humming quiet words he could relate to about leaving reasons behind.

"Hey, did you hear about the dead guy who couldn't sleep?" Tony asked from the doorway, and Clint glanced up curiously, so Tony finished with a small grin, "He had inzombia."

Clint shuddered involuntarily at the reference. "Ha," he said dryly; the archer's callused fingers continued to drift idly over the guitar strings for a few moments while Tony poured himself a drink and settled his lanky body comfortably into a chair, shifting restlessly but tapping the fingers of his left hand in time with Clint's melody. Clint realized that his teammate and cohort in crime clearly missed Pepper while she was in DC - he could relate, since his own partner was currently in Istanbul making bad guys regret they'd ever ended up on SHIELD's radar.

Clint strummed and Tony hummed for a moment, then Clint carefully set the guitar aside and stood with a sigh. "I guess I'm going to bed." He hesitated, a pained look crossing his face at the lie; he had something to do yet that he refused to let slip by each year without a passing acknowledgement.

"Hey," Tony said, opening his eyes when the music stopped, and Clint glanced at him inquiringly. "How about a drink?" the inventor offered. "You look like you can use one."

Clint shook his head. "Nah … I don't really … do that." He shrugged a shoulder like it was no big deal, but Tony was sharper than he was often given credit for.

"A couple of drinks won't make you _him_," Tony said quietly. "Come on, Feathers … wouldn't you like to just _**not**_ think for awhile?"

OoOoOoOoOo

"You know what's weird?" Clint asked fuzzily; the archer was sprawled upside down in his chair, sinking arrows without fail into a target Tony had sloppily colored on the far wall. "The way Fury walks around the streets like he owns New York. Isn't he, like, the super-secret undercover director of the hugest super-secret undercover agency ever?"

Tony poured himself another drink, only missing the glass a little as amber droplets splashed on the table. "Hey," he mused thoughtfully, "who do you think would win: Nick Fury, or Mace Windu?"

"Who?" Clint asked, and Tony gave him an odd look, a _duuuuuuuh_ look.

"_**Nick. Fury**_." Tony over-enunciated carefully. "You know: the guys who signs our paychecks."

"Ohhhhhh," Clint drawled slowly, blinking a little too fast as he thought on that. "Right. That guy. With the lightsaber."

"Right," Tony confirmed agreeably; apparently he also thought they were the same individual, even though one was clearly a fictional character. "Exactly."

OoOoOoOoOo

"And then I was like, look who brought a _**jet**_ to a gun fight! Haha!" Tony cackled. "_**Classic**_!"

Clint laughed too; he was wearing his sunglasses and nursing his drink slowly, laughing at Tony's jokes as he wandered from one instrument to the next.

"So what's the deal with you and Romanoff?" Tony wanted to know from where he was lying on the grand piano at which Clint sat poking out a sad-sounding melody that was really harshing Tony's buzz. Tony promptly forgot his own question as he frowned mightily at the bluesy tune from the piano.

"Play Freebird!" Tony demanded, and then laughed his high-pitched had-too-much-to-drink laugh that was usually the signal for Pepper to put him to bed. Too bad she wasn't here. "Hey!" Tony grinned, poking Clint's shoulder sloppily as a thought occurring to him: "Isn't that like your song or something?"

"Sure," Clint said pleasantly, "sounds good. What's yours? Girls Just Want to Have Fun?"

Tony say up abruptly in mock-indignation, spilling his drink on his shirt but thankfully not the piano or much of himself. "Of course not. It's Dancing Queen."

OoOoOoOoOo

"That is weird," Tony agreed, adjusting Clint's sunglasses over his own nose and laughing. "Hey, Feathers, check me out! I wear your sunglasses at night!"

"Boooo," Clint retorted, nocking another arrow; he'd temporarily left music behind to loose another round of arrows into the wall. "Lame!"

"Suit yourself, Hunger Games," Tony sulked. "But the eighties were incredibly good to me."

"Okay, old man," Clint teased. "Don't get your pacemaker in a twist."

Tony brightened like a star gone supernova. "Oh! Oh!" he said excitedly, gesturing at his arc reactor, "Wanna see me pop this bitch out and make it flash like a strobe light? It's a great party trick!"

"Ummmm no thanks," Clint said hastily, but then he took another sip of his drink and thought a little harder. "Well, maybe … "

OoOoOoOoOo

Phil Coulson had to admit that babysitting the Avengers was actually an easier gig than he'd been expecting based on the initial reports of unmitigated disaster coming out of Avengers Tower. It _**was**_ an extremely odd scenario, though, all of them living together and basically hanging out between missions like some kind of social club. Frankly, Phil had been amazed that Clint and Natasha hadn't moved out already; it didn't seem like the assassins' cup of tea, but maybe because neither of them had had a normal family life, this was like back pay: annoying but appreciated siblings you couldn't help but grin at.

Phil hadn't forgotten what day it was, but he'd been wrapped up with work on base until now. He'd just been dropped off at the Tower and wanted to check on Clint. The archer could handle himself fine, had been quietly celebrating this anniversary long before Phil had even been assigned to track down the contract assassin Hawkeye, but there were some days a man shouldn't have to be alone.

A knock on Clint's door yielded nothing, so Phil figured roof first, vents next. He was on his way upstairs when he heard unusual noises spilling from down the hall. Phil wasn't prepared for the sight he encountered when his eyes finally adjusted: Clint was sitting at the drum set, clearly just a little out of it, banging away like there was no tomorrow. Stark, clearly a _**lot**_ out of, was wearing a long black trench coat and an eye patch sloppily hanging over one eye, and was striding around with his clenched fist thumping against his breastbone.

Clint stopped drumming long enough to ask in high-pitched mock-surprise, "Is that Nick Fury? Super secret director of super-secret spy organization SHIELD?"

Tony nodded regally, the eye patch slipping just a little; it _might _have been patched on with bubble gum, Phil wasn't entirely sure. "Why yes, good woman, I am he, wandering around the streets of New York so everyone knows who I am."

Phil cleared his throat to be heard over the noise. "Gentlemen."

Two pairs of slightly guilty eyes swung to meet his, but the guilt didn't last nor did Phil's stern look; it was hard not to smile at Clint's enthusiastic drumming and Tony's horrible but still recognizable impression, but somehow Phil managed: he had a reputation to uphold, after all.

"What are you two up to?" Phil asked nonchalantly, and his sharp gaze caught on the archer and he breathed a sigh of relief - Clint actually looked happy and relaxed, and it was more than Phil could have hoped for on a day like today.

"Well, _**I'm **_doing everything in a half-blind Fury," Tony grinned, and added proudly, "and Feathers is kickin' the ass outta those drums."

"I'm partying like a Hawkstar, bitches!" Clint said tipsily, then hiccupped.

"Are you gentlemen drunk?" Phil asked patiently, and Clint immediately straightened from his comfortable sprawl.

"No, I'm not," - and he clearly wasn't; the archer jerked a thumb in Tony's direction. "But Stark's a funny drunk."

"What? You were just pretending?" Tony demanded, wounded feelings showing, but Clint gave him a beautific smile that soothed his rumpled spirits.

"I was having a great time," Clint corrected kindly, and his hand flashed out quickly to catch Stark before he tripped over his trench coat. "Come on, let's haul your Iron Ass to bed."

"Feathers, you're an asshole," Tony slurred affectionately, the alcohol on his breath making both Clint and Phil wince, "but you're _**my**_ asshole."

"Ew," said Clint.

"Gross," said Phil, hauling Tony's other arm over his shoulder, and even Tony looked a little discomfited.

"You know what I mean," he protested anxiously.

"I don't even want to know what you mean," Clint deferred, and together he and Phil managed to get Stark's lanky weight maneuvered to his bedroom and across his giant bed, clothes and all, before quietly closing the door on the hot mess Pepper would have to deal with when she got back in the morning.

Back in the hall, Phil scrutinized Clint carefully. "Okay? Heading for the roof?" he asked pointedly, and Clint shrugged.

"Actually I think I'm just going to bed," Clint answered, and if he was surprised by his own answer he didn't show it. Phil nodded shortly, apparently satisfied.

"Happy anniversary," he said quietly, and Clint nodded his appreciation to his old friend.

"Thanks for remembering," he said softly. In his room, Clint knelt before his footlocker, fishing through carefully to retrieve a single picture secured against the lining, the only picture he had left of her. He looked at it for a long moment then sighed, tucking it away carefully until next year.

OoOoOoOoOo

I have to admit, it felt weird working even a little angst into this fic, but I adore Clint and Tony bonding moments so there it is. ;D And I feel like there is _**much**_ more potential for tipsy!Tony and Clint, like I totally underdid it, so any ideas there will be adored and utilized, but this chapter just refused to be completed and I didn't know what else to add for now - and frankly Steve has been demanding more fic time and hijacked the next chapter, and is impatiently demanding that we get on to it, already.

Next: A freak accident switches the Avengers' abilities around … and Steve feels like ice cream.


	7. Day Eleven: A Very Poor Selection

So I know I said that Steve had hijacked the next chapter, and I really thought he had, but then I saw a pic of Jeremy Renner walking through an airport wearing a iPod, and Loki immediately demanded the Muse write this chapter instead. Poor Steve!

Kudos to readers of the last chapter who caught RDJ's MW3 reference and those who pointed out that JR does indeed play guitar, piano, and drums (which apparently is why Clint does, too)

Let me know what you think, please, even if it's just that you're tired of this ridiculous fic. lol

**Unlikely Housemates**

By: Syntyche

Day Eleven: A Very Poor Selection

Loki - the demigod of mischief, insatiable trickster, and all-around diva - was restless.

Imprisonment for the Allfather's son on Asgard was not quite as dire as one might have thought; indeed, Loki's cell was most lavish compared to, say, Alcatraz, with plush rugs covering the polished floors, warm lighting that set off his rather striking features, and his very own bed and dresser set that Thor himself had moved in here from upstairs.

And the Allfather had permitted Loki to import a device he'd become quite intrigued by during his ultimately disastrous stay on Midguard: Barton had informed him that it was called a "TV." Despite Loki's overall distaste for the human race, the demigod had most unexpectedly found himself completely enraptured by the dramatic little lives portrayed during what Barton had also explained to him (with completely unnecessary scorn) was known as "reality television." If those funny, deliciously dramatic little ants were the actual personification of "real" human life on Midguard, Loki found himself extremely curious and also disappointed that he hadn't run into any of them - he had a feeling they could have exchanged a lot of fashion tips and social advice.

Click.

Click.

Click.

There was nothing on, really, and mindful of Odin's directive to limit his usage (apparently DirecTV didn't come cheap to Asgard, and was delivered on a pay-by-the-hour basis), Loki snapped off the television with a frustrated sneer. He'd already caught up with the Kardashians and witnessed with whitened knuckles the drama of those poor teen mothers struggling to survive in a world that just didn't understand. Loki could completely empathize - though he _**hadn't**_ appreciated Barton's rather snotty comment that the reason the demigod was so enthralled by reality television was because Loki himself would _**love**_ the attention of cameras and paparazzi following him around 24/7 (an apparent reference to hours/days Loki hadn't bothered to ask about) and it instant pseudo-celebrity it brought.

Loki sighed miserably. How he missed his little hawk! He'd _**tried**_ to keep his pet, he really had, but Thor had gotten tired of his unending "Can I keep him, _**please**_? I'll feed and water him this time, brother, I _**swear**_," and had gagged him with that ridiculously unsightly device before Loki could even ask Barton if he'd like to come live in Asgard with him and be his best pet forever.

Stupid Thor.

Loki crossed his arms over his lean chest sulkily. "I'm bored," he announced to no one in particular, though at that moment as if summoned by Loki's ill will, Thor himself was let into his brother's cell, his rippling arms laden with a stack of thinly bound papers that he delivered to Loki with a proud flourish.

"I have brought you some Midguardian entertainment, brother!" he declared grandly. "Mag-a-zines!" he pronounced with a hint of pride that made the well-educated Loki cringe a little, though the smallest smile of affection crossed his face before he realized what he was doing and hastily replaced it with a sneer. "I am sure you will enjoy these," Thor added mightily (because everything Thor did was done _mightily, _usually with _majesty_ or _power _attached, and often with some variation of _thunder_. It's just who he was, sort of like how everything Loki did was done _softly, purringly,_ and _with great amusement_.)

"I can't thank you enough for your troubles, dear brother," Loki purred softly, with great amusement. "Your unending thoughtfulness during my time of confinement is so _**very**_ much appreciated."

Thor smiled blindingly and Loki had to squint if he wanted to keep looking at his brother; he really should have realized as soon as he was old enough to reason that he was clearly _**not**_ from this family. It almost made him want to face palm, if the motion weren't so undignified.

"You're most welcome, brother!" he cheered powerfully, barely managing to cross his arms over his broad chest since his biceps unfailingly got in the way.

"Yes, well, I was wondering, _brother_ … " Loki began sweetly, and Thor's smile faded immediately to be replaced by a ponderous and storm cloud-like frown.

"_**NO PETS!**_" Thor thundered powerfully. "I have already told you!"

"Fine!" Loki snapped, turning away to face the wall and resolutely ignoring Thor until the god of thunder stomped his way up the stairs with a swish of his retractable cape. Once he was sure Thor was gone, Loki idly snaked out a long-fingered hand to snatch the pile of magazines…

… and was immediately faced with an extremely smug-looking Tony Stark's grinning face.

"How repulsive," Loki muttered, pulling out his slim yet retro-style reading glasses to peer at the cover: "GQ" was the magazine, and the read was, "Why You'll Never Be a Genius Billionaire Playboy Philanthropist Like Me, By Tony Stark - With Love."

Loki tossed that aside to reveal Thor's next selection: a well-thumbed through "Guns and Ammo" featuring Loki's very own little mewling quim Natasha Romanoff on the cover, her perky bosom caught mid-heave. "How delightful," Loki muttered, but not without some affection as he moved on.

"Men's Health," slightly worn, featuring a well-chiseled but somehow still shy and touchable Captain America, his perfect smile illuminating the cover's dark space better than any lighting job could hope to.

"Cellist's Weekly," featuring an exclusive interview with a cellist in Portland who claimed to be involved in a whirlwind romance with "the spy who loved me!"

"Popular Science," untouched by Thor, with an extremely uncomfortable-looking Bruce Banner on the cover. Clearly he had expected to discuss something science-y with the journalist who'd interviewed him (not an unreasonable assumption based on the magazine title); however the body of the article was four pages of Banner deflecting questions about the Hulk.

"Archery" magazine, also unopened, with his little hawk on the cover - that one, Loki tucked under his pink bed ruffle where Thor wouldn't find it when he came to claim his treasures back.

Loki also found no less than ten bodybuilding magazines with Thor on the cover, posing in various stages of flexing (there was also one "Playgirl" that Loki was certain his brother hadn't intended to include, since Thor was only wearing his extremely conveniently placed cape.)

And finally, at the bottom of the pile, "US Weekly," and Loki's green eyes brightened as he recognized familiar faces on the cover.

"Kardashians," he sighed lovingly, eagerly flipping through the pages. Unfortunately the very first spread his eyes fell on was "Stars! They're Just Like Us: the Avengers Assemble Edition!" Loki frowned heavily, but curiosity compelled him to read on to see what those damn Avengers did that made them just like everyone else.

Apparently:

"They forget their wallets!" - Black Widow, her flashing eyes rolled in annoyance as she patted down her skintight catsuit while standing in line at Starbucks.

"They have bad hair days!" - Banner, apparently just de-Hulked judging by the state of his undress (unless part of his mutation was just that he now had strangely blurry nether regions), sporting a case of bedhead that made Loki cackle in delight and run a hand through his own dark, perfect locks.

"They do shots!" - Stark, at some fancy bar, a blurry Thor and Barton behind him, egging him on.

"They listen to music!" And there was his little hawk again, ear buds firmly tucked in his ears, giving the camera a small, slightly awkward grin as he strode through an airport.

And "They pick up their dry cleaning!" Rogers, blushing prettily at the attention as he exited a dry-cleaners with a plastic garment bag draped over his shoulder, the Captain America suit clearly visible within.

In the very bottom corner was an inset: "They're NOT Like Us!" with a picture of Thor swinging Mjolner grandly that said "They wear capes!"

Loki tossed aside all the magazines with a huff (all except the US Weekly, because he yet to read about the Kardashians, plus he was going to cut out the little picture of Barton to add to his Christmas list), groaning at the unfairness of it all. _**He**_ should be the object of swooning adoration! _**He**_ should be on the cover of magazines and coyly brushing aside paparazzi! _**He **_should be the one with cameras trained on him 24/7!

24/7 …

Hmmm. _**Perhaps **_another visit to Midguard was in order. After all, if the Midguardian public could find entertainment enjoyment in the brainless antics of the young adults from New Jersey, why _**wouldn't**_they fall over themselves for a peek behind the superhero front of the Avengers, brought to their adoring eyes by Executive Producer Loki Laufeyson?

It was perfect.

And Loki knew just the Midguardian-loving brother to help him get there.

OoOoOoOoOo

I haven't decided yet if Loki should be successful in his bid for an Avengers reality TV show, but it's a funny thought anyway… XD


	8. Day Thirteen: An Extremely Unlucky Day

So, it occurred to me that both this chapter and the newly-posted chapter of Screams both start in the TV room … I dunno. It's just the way it worked out. I clearly need to look at the floor plans for Stark/Avengers Tower. XD

**Unlikely Housemates**

By: Syntyche

Day Thirteen: An Extremely Unlucky Day 

So, the grand Avengers experiment wasn't working out quite like Tony had anticipated. While he had to admit that they were like a weirdly dysfunctional family (complete with food fights and squabbling over whose turn it was to vacuum,) there were definitely a few downsides to this new living arrangement. Such as:

Thor eating him out of house and pop tarts, and filling the main fridge with disgusting samples of Asgardian "cuisine" that often looked like it festered from the witches' pot from Clash of the Titans.

Banner occasionally Hulking out and tearing up the place.

Barton randomly winging things like paperclips and cheese at people (mostly Tony) from his network of air vents.

And worst of all …

Steve wandered in, took one look at the TV they're all focusing on with varying degrees of interest, and sighed gustily at the barely-clad, barely-legal boys and girls running around, screaming and shouting and generally making unwise decisions that will without fail draw their pursuers' attention to them.

"Not another teen movie," Steve chastised reproachfully, as if he couldn't be bothered to even waste the brain space to learn the name of the picture.

"Oh boy," Tony said dryly, "It's Captain Cheer-merica. Join us, won't you, Cap? We can always use your insightful commentary about how _every single movie_ made after 1940 is an assault on the senses."

Steve crossed his arms with another sigh. "Not _**every **_movie," he protested. "I just really dislike this sort of drivel." And he did. Not only did these movies continually decry his profound sense of morality, they were just, well, _**stupid.**_ He'd come to Stark's "mandatory" movie night hoping they would be watching another installment in the "Superman" movie series (now _**there**_ was a guy with morals Steve could associate with, and also his ingenious method of disguise that Steve could _**also**_ relate to - glasses, that was just _**clever**_), and his disappointment at whatever idiocy this is was palpable.

But Tony's eating this up, along with handfuls of dried fruit and popcorn, and rolled his expressive eyes when Bruce roused from his semi-asleep state to point out how unhealthy popcorn actually was.

Tony pointed to his chest. "Yeah, jolly green giant, popcorn kernel versus shrapnel … I think I'll take my chances with the popcorn." To prove his point, Tony shoveled in a particularly large fistful of popcorn, which he immediately started choking on.

Thor reacted swiftly, leaping majestically from the futon to thump Tony on the back, perhaps not remembering that's an unwise idea for many reasons, but one glaring reason was immediately obvious when, along with a soggy glop of popcorn shooting from the inventor's mouth to land wetly on Coulson's shoe, the force of Thor's blow also sent Tony's arc reactor spilling from his chest cavity. There were a few tense moments until they figured out how to put the device back in the flailing inventor's chest and Tony sucked in a few gasping breaths, after which he quietly switched to just dried fruit and everyone settled back into their mostly somnolent states as Coulson discreetly wiped the hardening mass of popcorn slowly fusing to his no-longer shiny shoe onto the carpet and moved his chair overtop of it for no one to find _**ever**_.

Eventually, Steve gave in and carefully sat himself next to the assassins with a polite smile, but his attention had barely wandered back to the screen when the hapless teenagers decided to split up to explore the creepy, dangerous residence containing at least one axe murderer.

"See?" Steve pointed out irritably. "Look how ridiculous this is! Isn't there one person in that entire group with an ounce of sense?" He answered his own question with a snarky, "Although, with the way they've been spreading their various bodily fluids liberally around a crime scene, I seriously doubt it."

He looked to Clint and Natasha for support, since Bruce was out of it and Stark and Coulson were clearly not in his corner here, but all he got was a sleepy nod from Clint and a supportive grunt from Natasha. Barton's grounding had finally been lifted, and the assassins were just returned from an assignment where they took a hell of a beating ("but the bad guys look worse," Clint claimed proudly, with a grin on his bruised face.) Natasha's casted ankle was propped on a pillow in front of her, and the archer's read rested in her lap while she absently drifted her fingers through his short hair, mindful of the stitches tracking across his cheekbone all the way to his ear. Steve knew there were other stitches, bruises, and cuts that littered their bodies, but he'd been too courteous to watch the pair's routine cleaning and stitching up of each other, especially when Natasha had started to strip out of her tattered catsuit.

Steve finally gave up even trying to watch the movie. "I'm going for ice cream," he decided. "Anyone feel like a banana split?"

OoOoOoOoOo

They're not even sure how it happened.

What they do know is that all of the sudden, Tony Hulked out, Clint was super-strong, and Steve was doing acrobatic moves no man should physically be able to do. They heard a shriek from the adjoining laboratory - they weren't actually sure whether it was Bruce or Natasha - and the duo reappeared, Natasha clumping awkwardly in the Iron Man suit while Bruce trailed slowly behind her, openly admiring his new, extremely impressive biceps.

They stared at each other for a minute as their minds processed what had apparently happened, and it was still Tony who grasped the entirety of the situation first; probably because the face he loved to look at in the mirror every morning was now green and perched atop an extremely large, equally green body clad only in an extremely unflattering pair of ugly purple pants.

"Well, this is interesting," he said. "And very unwelcome."

Bruce smiled as he flexed tentatively. "I don't know," he said cheerfully, "Look at these _**biceps**_!"

"I want those back," Clint warned Bruce as Tony fussed and fumbled with his newly enormous hands.

"Oh, go screw yourself," Tony whined, "I'm _**green!**_ I'm green and _**huge**_!"

"See?" Steve moaned despairingly, "Once again the dangers of splitting up are clearly illustrated here!" He spun suddenly and kicked his leg up quite high to take out a remaining drone whirring up behind him and the other men winced sympathetically, while Tony's hand actually drifted protectively toward his bright purple pants.

"Yeah, I dunno," Clint shrugged, pulling uncomfortably at his new, shiny spandex, though the blue was inarguably a nice color for him. "The goatee kinda makes Iron Hulk look … distinguished. Like all you need, dude, is a pipe and a smoking jacket."

"Iron Hulk?" Bruce chuckled, still flexing and admiring. "I like it."

"Speak for yourself, Hulkeye," Tony shot back, looking extremely and greenly disgruntled.

"Oh, right!" Bruce lit up brightly as a thought occurred to him and he went for Clint's bow, strapped securely to his now well-muscled back. Clint immediately snatched it from his grasp.

"I don't think so," the archer-supersoldier said darkly.

They searched the lab and found nothing useful to switch themselves back and so, resigned, they returned to Stark Tower, with Natasha jetting off almost gleefully in the Iron Man suit and leaving the men to hail a taxi since they were all still a little uncoordinated with their new physiques. There was a slight issue with getting Tony to de-Hulk so he'd fit in the small car, and it took several minutes of Bruce showing the inventor some soothing yoga moves before Tony was clutching the purple pants around his wait irritably (several _**long**_ moments because Bruce kept getting distracted by his muscles rippling as he moved through the familiar poses.)

Once they arrived at the Tower they found Coulson waiting for them at the door. He looked at them curiously for a moment as he paid their cab fare, then without a word he produced a stack of paperwork for each of them before walking away.

Natasha was sitting patiently for them once they'd schlepped back into the TV room; with no real plan, they decided to order a pizza, finish their movie, and then maybe go from there. She was still wearing the Iron Man suit, and Tony nodded at her in speculative approval.

"I feel strangely attracted to you right now," he said curiously.

"I'm not surprised," Natasha muttered wryly, "since I'm sort of you right now."

"Don't even think about it," Clint and Bruce said together, with a glare at Tony, and Natasha - and Steve - gave them both a look of gratitude, which really highlighted the awkwardness of their situation.

They all stared at each other, unsure, until Tony said weakly, "How about we finish watching our movie now?"

There was a general rumble of consensus and they made themselves comfortable. Tony discovered that if he Hulked out he could have the whole sofa to himself, and Clint frowned heavily when his still-stitched together head impacted against the hard thigh of the Iron Man suit Natasha hadn't been able to get off yet. Bruce found himself a spot in the ceiling and Steve perched daintily on a chair and crossed one knee gracefully over the other.

"This is weird," Clint said, and at that moment Loki strolled in, a camera crew trailing at his heels. The god of mischief took in the scene with remarkable calm (he'd quietly been filming their exploits since the laboratory, and the mysterious 'accident' was actually courtesy of him, which explained why they were mixed up so curiously.) Loki smiled his ingratiating grin and clapped his hands together gleefully.

"No, Agent Barton," he corrected lightly, "this is _**perfect.**_"

OoOoOoOoOo

Review, please, please, please! :D and remember to offer suggestions if anything you'd like to see pops into your mind!

Next: The Avengers - still switched around - respond as expected to both Loki's appearance and his proposition. Unfortunately, it seems like their PR manager Pepper is on Loki's side.


	9. Day Fourteen: Logistically Speaking

W00t! Kudos to Agent-Hamilton123 for catching that Chris Evans was in "Not Another Teen Movie," which happens to be Steve's first line of dialogue in the previous chapter, and to Bookdancer for noting that Clint does at some point don the Captain America costume. I love readers who notice details. ;D

**Unlikely Housemates**

By: Syntyche

Day Fourteen: Logistically Speaking …

The Avengers, such as they now were:

Steve Rogers, AKA Captain America, clad in a black catsuit and possessed with remarkable flexibility and stunning red hair that gently swept across his bright blue eyes. If anyone had wished to imagine what Rogers would look like as a woman their curiosity would now be unhappily satisfied: it wasn't _**quite**_ the turn on one might think, but that may have been because, unlike his teammates Stark and Banner, Rogers' physique had not been altered and he looked like an extraordinarily well-built drag queen.

Tony Stark, AKA Iron Man, although The _Incredible_ _Iron Hulk_ might be more apropos at the moment, since the suave billionaire had mutated into a large green monster, clad in nauseatingly purple pants and a black Judas Priest t-shirt. Where Banner as the Hulk always looked angry, Stark as the Hulk just looked … annoyed.

Bruce Banner, AKA the Incredible Hulk: slim, toned, and happier than ever in a neat, close-fitting uniform shaded purple and black. He continued to look forlornly over his shoulder at the empty space across his back where a weapon - or quiver - of some sort should go, then glance sadly his teammate standing nearby fiercely clutching a large, colorful shield in one hand and a bow in the other.

Clint Barton - said teammate - AKA Hawkeye, was clearly irritated with his bold blue spandex. It _**was**_ an overwhelming color choice if you weren't prepared for it, and Barton was a man of simple taste who preferred to lead when necessary without all the fanfare; it was really difficult to be discreet when you looked like a rocket pop.

And Natasha Romanoff, AKA the Black Widow, more juggernaut-like than her norm in the Iron Man suit usually modeled by Stark. The red of her face nearly matched her fiery hair: clearly the cumbersome nature of the metal suit attached to her slender body tried the assassin's patience beyond levels she was able to control.

Loki looked upon his grand achievement - the bold remaking of the Avengers - and smiled. He really did do good work. But despite his unexpected and - he thought - gloriously dramatic entrance into their movie night, to Loki's immense surprise the mixed-up Avengers did not welcome him or his four-man camera crew with open arms. In fact, the closest thing to an _open arms_ greeting the god of mischief received was that upon seeing the demigod, Clint Barton lunged for him with a strangled snarl, wrapping his rough fingers around Loki's long neck and squeezing tightly, the promise of retribution glinting darkly in his blue eyes.

Loki had already known that without any superpowers Hawkeye was dangerous. He very quickly came to the realization that, gifted with Captain America's strength, the archer was _**terrifying**_.

"My friends!" Loki gasped out in a tone much more frazzled than he'd dreamed he'd use in his triumphant re-entry into the lives of the Avengers, who seemed more content to let Barton do his own avenging than step in and help the god who, really, they should be _**thanking**_ for bringing them all together in the first place.

Really, they owed him.

"It's so … pleasant … to see you," The demigod tried his normal stunning smile, which he unhappily suspected was less effective with his lips turning an admittedly unflattering shade of cerulean.

"It's even more pleasant to see you," Stark responded amiably, "turn blue."

Loki had to admit that while he'd rather admired Stark's polished good looks when he was in his rightful body, the Iron Man's goateed face atop Hulk's massive and unwieldy body created a rather unpleasant feeling in the pit of his stomach. Stark would be the first returned to normal, Loki promised. If he lived long enough to change them back. "Ahh," the demigod managed to almost-purr, motioning for the camera crew to keep rolling, "very clever wordplay there, Tony Stark."

"It's a gift." Stark shrugged in a way that wasn't meant to be modest in any sense, but he looked distracted and saddened by his giant green arms, and he tucked his hands into his armpits awkwardly.

"I've noticed that there's … something _different_ … about you all," Loki stuttered, speaking was becoming more difficult and he realized that he needed to get Barton to let go, otherwise his victorious return would end before it even really started. Also, his hair was getting mussed and that wouldn't do for the cameras at all. He just needed to get the hook in: "I believe I … can help … right bodies," he tried to explain, and he gave Barton a dirty look when black spots started to dance before his eyes.

On the large-screen television, the screen faded to black as the young couple - the only two teenagers left alive out of the dozen or so the movie had started with - ran trembling for the car that had been parked outside all along - and the credits rolled. Phil Coulson sighed and levered himself out of the recliner with easy grace, and his calculating gaze landed on the archer calmly strangling the demigod.

"Stand down, Barton," Coulson ordered evenly. "But only a little."

Barton eased the pressure just slightly. "You have sixty seconds to explain," he growled darkly, shaking the god of mischief like a wet dog.

"Yes, well," Trying to control his gasping, Loki smiled what he hoped was his most disarming grin; it didn't help that this lot wasn't as easy to manipulate as his lunkheaded brother. "I see that there's been a … mix-up of sorts, and I'd like to offer my assistance in restoring you all to your proper bodies and abilities."

Stark wasn't fooled for a second by the seemingly helpful offer. "In exchange for?" he demanded, his brow furrowed at the rumbling roar that had replaced his pleasant tenor.

"In exchange," Loki murmured smoothly, though it was extremely difficult to appear as the king he was with Barton's malevolent presence hovering so closely; it actually saddened the demigod that his former pet now regarded him with such hatred, and he mentally added _make amends with Agent Barton_ to his bucket list. "In exchange," he repeated, "for your agreement and cooperation in allowing me to record and televise your daily exploits."

Total silence blanketed the room - not that it had been loud anyway with the only sounds being the end credits music of the teen movie, random noises of disbelief and disgust from the Avengers, and Loki's labored breathing.

And then Iron Natasha said slowly, "You want to make a reality show? Of the Avengers?"

"Of course!" Loki enthused, clapping his hands together cheerfully. "It benefits us all, does it not? The Avengers receive excellent PR while I appear a little less evil and a little more … enterprising."

"No," Coulson, Barton, and Romanoff said together immediately.

"Not while I look like this," Stark contributed darkly, but added, "Once I'm back to my normal svelte self though? Maybe. Cameras love me."

"It _**would**_ be an excellent chance to teach today's youth about morality and making good choices," Rogers opined thoughtfully, reaching down to touch his toes a few times.

"And Hulk could certainly use a better public image," Banner added contemplatively.

"Why are we even still listening to this?" Romanoff demanded. She went to put her hands on her hips and lean forward in the way she did when she was taking charge while reminding anyone with eyes that she was still a woman, but her efforts were restricted by the jerky movements and the non-cleavage-revealing nature of the Iron Man suit.

"Uh, because we don't want to look like this forever?" Stark answered irritably, and they could all hear the "duuhh" hanging at the end of his sentence. A few of the more suspicious Avengers suspected Stark's judgment might be compromised by his distaste of his new Hulk body, and those suspicions certainly weren't unfounded.

"Speak for yourself," Banner muttered quietly, but not quietly enough that Barton didn't hear him and the archer gave the physicist a strange look. Banner shrugged and smiled.

"I think it's a great idea." Pepper Potts finally lifted her blonde head from where she'd been rapidly typing away on her StarkPad, already working on the initial press release for the new Avengers reality show. As the Avengers unofficial PR manager, she continually received numerous complaints about the team: everything from Thor's bad table manners to Bruce's random bouts of destruction. Also a lot of requests for the Black Widow's phone number.

"Do you, Miss Potts?" Coulson asked a little too sweetly, and they _**all**_ thought Pepper was a little scary when her smile turned frosty and she repeated firmly,

"Yes_. __**I. Think. It's. A. Great. Idea."**_

"Uh, yes," Coulson agreed hastily, "it sure is," and the rest of the team nodded appropriately even though half of them clearly weren't happy with the idea.

"Oh, that's fantastic," Loki trilled gleefully. "I shall get to work on restoring you all immediately."

"Make sure Thor's here; he needs an image makeover almost more than Banner," Pepper commanded sharply, and Loki twitched unhappily but nodded.

"Take your time," Banner said, lovingly flexing his delicious musculature; his brow furrowed as he craned his neck to look at his left bicep carefully. "Wait, Barton, do you have a tattoo?" he asked incredulously.

"Does anyone have any questions before we get started?" Loki interrupted, loathe to cede any further control to his new starring ensemble.

"Will we have a script?" Rogers asked somewhat nervously.

"There shall be both scripted and unscripted moments," Loki explained knowledgeably. "Along with one-on-one interviews and commentary." He glanced around at the team, clearly enraptured with his confirmed role of _series producer._ "Anyone else?"

"I have a question," Coulson piped in, shouldering forward. "Why do you talk like a well-educated man while your brother rocks all caveman style? Weren't you guys raised in the same home?"

Loki shrugged eloquently, the question clearly one that had long also puzzled the god of mischief. "You pose a query that I myself have mused over a great deal, Agent Coulson." He added admiringly, "And may I say that you face your own would-be murderer with remarkable calm and poise?"

Coulson shrugged amiably. "I plan to kill you in your sleep," he said pleasantly.

"Well, haha," Loki chuckled nervously, white teeth flashing. "Let's avoid that if we can. After all," he tapped one of the TV cameras lovingly, "it would be quite terrible if the first thing you did for your new public image campaign was to kill your producer."

There was general grumbling of dissent amongst the team and Coulson faded into the background quietly, his hooded gaze still fixed sharply on Loki. Loki's cheek jumped nervously as he turned away from the agent and again addressed the assembled, clapping his hands together cheerfully.

"Well, fantastic! Now we'll need a makeup crew, a lighting crew … " The demigod trailed away, ticking off various items on his long fingers, and the Avengers thought they actually heard him murmur something gleefully about leaving Kardashians in the dust. The team glanced at each other awkwardly, still quite uncomfortable possessing each other's abilities.

Tony finally shrugged, unable to stand still any longer. "I feel like smashing something," he said thoughtfully.

"Oh no, you don't," Pepper hastily rebuffed, not at all afraid to stand up to Tony, even when he was all Hulked out. "How about a peanut butter and jelly sandwich instead?"

"No crusts?" Tony bargained immediately.

"No crusts," Pepper agreed, and Tony nodded in agreement, following her toward the door.

"I can smash that," he decided.

Clint squinched his eyebrows. "Now we see who wears the purple pants in that relationship," he offered snarkily, to which Loki - already starting on his _make amends_ pledge - laughed at loudly and a little too heartily. Clint backed away a step.

"I'm going to watch the sequel to that teen movie," Coulson muttered, already hunting for the remote. "There are at least three more."

"Well, I'm gonna go work out," Bruce announced as he felt his thigh muscles happily. He was also a little excited about checking out his ass in the gym's mirrored walls; he'd heard it was pretty nice and if Loki was about to switch them back he intended to enjoy every remaining second of his well-toned life. It was like his muscles had muscles!

Clint frowned at him unhappily. "Stop looking at my body like that," he complained. "It's weird."

"I want some Ben and Jerry's," Steve decided abruptly as he easily stretched his incredibly flexible legs. "Suddenly a pint of Chubby Hubby sounds really good."

Natasha _eeped!_ as the other Avengers exited to pursue their various goals, and hissed to Clint, "Steve's going to eat my secret stash!"

"We'll get you more," Clint soothed, then his expression rumpled into a frown. "I'm actually more worried about what atrocities Bruce is going to commit upon my body right now."

"_**Your**_ body?" Natasha questioned skeptically. "You're still in your body, though; he just sort of is, too. And at least he isn't planning on stuffing it with ice cream."

"True," Clint agreed, "Very true." They glanced at each other awkwardly: Natasha in the Iron Man suit, Clint in blue spandex.

"Wanna roleplay?' Clint asked with a grin. "As Captain America, the symbol of goodness and justice, I'd actually get to be in charge for once."

Natasha pursed her lips seductively as she inclined her head to let her red hair spill over one eye enticingly. "You can be in charge if you help me get this suit off."

Clint raised an eyebrow and gave her a roguish grin. "This super-strength has to be good for something other than carrying this goofy-ass shield around. Want to go back to my room and give it a try?"

Natasha smiled.

OoOoOoOoOo

Pleeeeeease review. I'll beg. Lol! Let me know what you'd like to see, because the cameras start rolling in the next chapter!


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